


Lucky

by Sam1icker81



Series: Lucky [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eventual Smut, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Protective Sam Winchester, Sassy Dean Winchester, Sharing a Bed, Sweet Sam Winchester, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:54:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24791173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam1icker81/pseuds/Sam1icker81
Summary: You’re unlucky in love when you find a lost wallet outside a bar and are smitten with the photo on the ID inside.  Could your luck have turned, or have you found yourself in the middle of something unfortunate?
Relationships: Sam Winchester/You
Series: Lucky [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1793140
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

“This is why I never go out, Emily,” you shudder.

“Come on, that bad?” she’s wiping the front of her jeans with a wad of paper towels, “bad enough for you to dump your drink on me I guess.” She shoots me a classic Emily look.

“I’m sorry, I had to get us out of there.” you shift out of the way for a short blonde woman to wash her hands at the sink. Taking the dampened wad of paper from Emily’s hands, you shove them in the trash.

“Okay so what was his big offense?” she folds her arms and looks at you expectantly.

“First, he keeps calling my career ‘that girly-nursey-thing,’ so, misogynist. Then, let’s see, he told a pretty obviously pointed story about ‘some bitch’” you wiggle your fingers in air quotations, “who didn’t put out on the first date; so, misogynist. And I think the third ass grab of the night was three too many. So, misogynist.” The blonde, still at the mirror fixing her lipstick, scoffs.

“Fucking gross,” she says.

“Thank you!” you throw your hands up. As long as she’s on your side, she can butt into the conversation as much as she wants. “Can we just go? I’m tired anyway, we can just have girl’s night in.”

“Fine, he’s an asshole,” Emily laughs, “I’ll tell Josh.”

“While you’re at it, maybe ask him why he hates me so much to set me up with human garbage?”

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” she rolls her eyes but is laughing harder now. You take another second, give the blonde a lame smile, and then peek out the bathroom door. Perfect, he’s talking to another girl. Asshole. You take the opportunity to make a beeline for the front entrance.

You stand on the sidewalk and scroll through your phone for a second, waiting for Emily. A group of guys walk out of the bar, one of them whistles at you. What is up with your luck tonight?! You just pretend you didn’t hear them and stroll around to the other side of a concrete planter. You sit on the edge and the cold of the concrete seeps through your jeans. You pull in the corners of your brown leather jacket and that’s when you notice it, sitting on the ground next to your left foot. A regular, worn, brown leather wallet.

You scoop it up and you’re about to open it when you hear Emily yelling. You stuff it into your pocket with intentions of bringing it inside to turn it in. Emily storms out of the front door, heeled boots clicking on the sidewalk. She’s looking around for you and you leave your hiding place.

“Hey what’s wrong?” you ask walking up to her.

“Nothing,” she’s on her phone, looking for an uber. “Now Josh is being an asshole.”

“He’s drunk,” you offer.

“Yeah, well you got wine at your place?”

“Of course.”

“Uber will be here in 5.”

-

It’s afternoon when you remember the wallet. Well, actually you’d been tidying up your apartment and felt the lump in the pocket of your leather jacket when you were hanging it back up in the closet.

“Shit,” you say out loud. You pull it out and open it. There’s some cash, a few credit cards, a library card, nice, and there, the ID. He’s got shaggy brown hair, a triangular nose, and is very cute. Ooh and tall; you grin at the tiny 6’4’’ in black letters. Age: 26, only a year older than you. Name: Gregory Pittman. You’re starting to wish you could return this to Greg in person. “I’m not that lucky, Greg.” Still, you smile to yourself thinking about what Greg would look like if he smiled. You peek at the thumbnail image again. He’s cute stoic too. There’s something very penetrating about his eyes. Sighing, you shove the ID back in the clear pocket, put the wallet in your purse, and hang it on the front door so you don’t forget to head back to the bar when it opens. You turn on some music up on your TV before getting back to cleaning because you’re starting to realize how sad it is that you’re pining over some rando’s driver’s license and you need a distraction.

-

When you make it in the doors, the bar has only been open for about half an hour and you’re greeted with the small, kind of sad, early crowd. You’re only a few steps into your walk over to the counter when see a head of shaggy brown hair towering over most of the patrons.

“Greg?” you call out. The man turns. It’s really him. He’s at the bar. And driver’s license photos are not known for being particularly flattering; Greg, cute in his ID photo, is hot in person. His hair is even longer than in the picture, the tips brushing the corners of his sharp jaw, which is covered in dark stubble. And 6’4’’ is more striking in person than on paper. You finish the short walk to close the distance between you, thanking whatever planetary alignment occurred, that gave you a good excuse to talk to this guy. “I found your wallet last night.” you smile and hold out the brown leather. He smiles back. It’s even better than you pictured. He doesn’t even show his teeth, just a simple, effortless, crooked smile. And dimples? Are you kidding me?! Before he can even reach for the outstretched wallet, a shorter man standing next to him snatches it out of your hand. He would be handsome too if he didn’t have such a nasty expression on his face.

“Dude, chill,” Greg says pointedly at the shorter man as he starts searching through the contents of the wallet.

“I didn’t take anything,” even you are aware that you sound defensive.

“Then why didn’t you turn it over last night, huh?” Greg’s companion snaps back.

“I-I got distracted. I had a bad night and- “

“Hey,” Greg steps in, kicking the other with one of his huge brown boots, “you don’t have to explain yourself. Thank you…”

“Y/N”

“Thank you, Y/N. And, well,” he huffs out a breathy chuckle, “I’d introduce myself, but you already know my name, date of birth, weight, height, eye color, etcetera.” You’re not sure about his eyes, though. His license said hazel, but they are piercing green as you look up at him now. And even more penetrating. You give him a small laugh back and you actually blush a little bit. “I’m sorry about my brother,” he continues.

“It’s fine. I’m glad I could help.”

“Yeah, lucky we ran into you,” the brother speaks up again shooting you what he probably thinks is a winning smile and then he’s pulling him away.

“Lucky,” you whisper under your breath with a snort of a laugh.


	2. Lucky | Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re unlucky in love when you find a lost wallet outside a bar and are smitten with the photo on the ID inside. Could your luck have turned, or have you found yourself in the middle of something unfortunate?
> 
> Chapter warnings: masturbation, non consensual voyeurism

The clock on your dashboard reads 7:16 AM when you pull into the parking lot of the university library. You’re so exhausted you have to countdown from three in your head to motivate your limbs to extricate yourself from the car. You knew it would be hard juggling work and school like this, but with no work, there’d be no school. 12-hour overnight shifts at the hospital are the most compatible with your busy schedule, but they’re a beating. To the point where the smell of coffee wafting from the Starbucks in the lobby is almost euphoric.

It’s easy to find a good, quiet spot this early. You settle at an empty table with the textbook you need to start studying. A tight budget also means relying on library copies of textbooks. You don’t mind it too much though; the library is comfortable and a good excuse to get fancy coffee.

This time, he finds you. You must have dozed off, leaning your face on your elbow propped hand. You don’t hear what woke you, but when you open your eyes, Greg’s face is right in front of yours.  
“Greg?” you croak and then clear your throat, “this is so weird, what are you doing here? I didn’t know you went to school here.”

“I don’t, I just couldn’t find what I was looking for at the public library, so I asked here and they’re letting me use what I need, as long as I don’t take anything with me. Sorry to wake you up.” He laughs, eyebrows raised.” You smile, rub your eyes, and take a sip of cold coffee.

“I just got off a 12-hour shift…,” you check your watch, “a little over an hour ago. And I’ve only written like 15 flashcards.” You roll your eyes at yourself and he motions to your scrubs.

“You’re a nurse?”

“LPN, working on RN.”

“Wow, good for you. Sounds exhausting,” he laughs again, “is this seat taken? I promise not to distract,” he’s already sitting down in the seat across from you. You get a glimpse of the way his hand stretches across the entire cover of the book he’s holding before he sets down the stack. It’s distracting when the man so much as blinks.

It’s going on noon when you both go your separate ways. You have a stupid grin on your face while you’re walking back your car, holding only 20 completed flashcards. Because you know he’s walking out with your number.

-

*One week later*

He didn’t call.

In the back of your mind, you knew he wouldn’t. The good guys are always too good to be true. You sigh, stepping out the shower and wrapping a towel around yourself. You step into your empty bedroom and flop onto the bed without the energy to dry off and get dressed. You wallow in your loneliness for a minute or two while you watch your ceiling fan spin.

When you finally will yourself to move, you throw out your arm to prop your body up into action and feel the hard shape of your vibrator under the comforter beneath your elbow. You stop. The mess in the kitchen could wait. You could use a little serotonin boost.

You sink back into your pillows, pulling your toy out. You spread your legs and press the soft, purple silicone into your folds, sliding it back and forth a few times. Your eyes close as you give your mind over to the sensation, the towel slipping away from your body.

You press a button and the gentle vibrations send your head tipping backwards, a hum escaping your lips. You slide your other hand up your stomach, letting the rest of the towel fall away, to squeeze your left breast. Despite yourself, it’s Greg’s massive hand that you imagine is palming it and pinching at your nipple. It’s his broad shoulders that you imagine is pressing your thighs open. And his tongue that you imagine is working your clit.

You move the vibrator in circles, collecting your own moisture to slide it more easily. In your mind, dark eyes are staring up at you from between your legs. His long hair is tickling against the insides of your thighs. Your circles grow faster as your breath picks up. You click another button and the vibrations get more intense. You’re gasping and squeezing your eyes shut, your hips bucking upward. You imagine yourself pressing up into his face and feeling the scruff on his chin scrape against your tender flesh.

You cum with your mouth open in a soundless cry. Your hips rock and twitch against the vibrator riding out the last strands of pleasure.

After a few moments of catching your breath, you bring yourself to your feet to give the toy a wash in your bathroom sink. You slip your towel off to dry the vibrator, and to wipe at the slickness between your legs before discarding it in a heap on the floor. You stroll back into your room naked to pull on some sweats and an old charity 5K T-shirt.

Not feeling much more energized, but with a pleasant relaxed feeling settling in your bones, you take on the kitchen. Finals week had left it in a rough state. Days of making quick meals and running out the door left the sink to pile up with dishes caked with food. The trash can stood full with another tied up bag stinking beside it. Cleaning felt good. It felt like control. While the end of the semester meant a break from classes, homework, and studying, it also meant taking on extra shifts at the hospital to build your bank account back up during break.

With the kitchen finally looking and smelling a little more normal, you grab the two full trash bags and walk down the two flights of stairs from your apartment door to the ground. Making your way back from the short walk to the dumpster, you glimpse an unfamiliar car parked two spaces from yours. You don’t know why it stopped you for a second, then you realize it’s because it is familiar. You know nothing about cars, but it sticks out because its so old looking. You remember seeing the same exact one parked outside the bar when you returned Greg’s wallet.

Against your better judgement, you approach it. You squeeze your brass knuckle keychain tighter in your fingers. You don’t even know what you expect to see when you lower your head to peek in the window, but you certainly don’t expect it to start rolling down.

You jump back, yelping. You’re frozen in place while your brain is screaming at you to run. Then you see Greg’s face appearing above the glass.

“What the hell!?” You manage, while your heart still thumps in your ears.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can explain.” He says calmly, his hands up, palms facing outward in innocence.

“You better.” Your fingers are losing feeling around your keychain. He sighs and rubs a hand over his face.

“My job is really weird, okay? It’s hard to explain, but when most people bump into someone twice in a week, they can chalk it up to a funny coincidence. I have to be suspicious. I have to suspicious about everything. About everyone.” He’s not meeting your eyes.

“So, I’m the suspicious one? You’re making sure that I’m not a creep!?” Your voice is raising in volume and pitch with each word. “So, you’re outside my apartment fucking watching me!?” You point aggressively up toward your apartment. Your eyes flick up follow your gesture and you do a double take.

You’re pointing to one of the two windows in your apartment that face the street. You can see every single detail in your lit-up bedroom very clearly from where you stand. Your stomach drops. You’re still staring up when you ask, “How long have you been sitting out here?”

There’s no answer and you turn slowly back to meet Greg’s eyes. His expression is wide eyed, and his jaw is tight. Your knees are wobbly from embarrassment and anger. “I’m calling the cops.” Your voice is low and shaky.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to see anything. It wasn’t like that, please.” He pleads, his wide eyes have this puppy dog look that makes you sick.

“You have ten seconds to get out of my sight.” You pull your phone out of your sweatpants pocket. The engine roars to life immediately and you stare him down as he drives away. You stand for a moment, shaking with rage until the adrenaline starts wearing off and you feel like you’re going to vomit. Somehow your liquid legs get you back up the two flights of stairs to your door. You turn out the light, close the blinds, and sink into bed and pull out your phone. You take a deep breath as you press the ringing tone to your ear.

“Emily? Are you busy? Can you come over?”


	3. Lucky | Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re unlucky in love when you find a lost wallet outside a bar and are smitten with the photo on the ID inside. Could your luck have turned, or have you found yourself in the middle of something unfortunate?
> 
> Chapter Warnings: Canon-level violence, cursing

You’re over being sad. Now you’re just angry. You’re overwhelmed with the feeling as you tug on the handle of your car door. It’s three in the morning, eight hours into your 12-hour shift, but your supervisor happened to be a nice one today and let you go early.

It’s unfortunately fairly common for Brandon, one of the RNs, to casually harass you at work. But after the events of last night and the ongoing self-pity party you’ve been throwing lately in honor of your love life, it was just one suggestive joke too many for you.

You turn on the first loud rock playlist Spotify has to offer, without scrutiny, before pulling out of the hospital parking lot. You do your utmost to allow the first deafening song to drown out your thoughts, but your mind flashes regardless. Mister grab-ass at the bar; Brandon, who you’re sure can see the line but continues to cross it, catcalls, lingering eyes, and Greg. Beautiful Greg.

His transgressions hurt the worst. Not just because of how glaringly horrible his actions had been, but because you actually liked him. Everything was clicking the day in the library. You had even started believing that you were meant to find that wallet. Like you actually had gotten lucky. And during the show you had inadvertently given him, it was his hands on your body that you’d pictured. Your stomach turns at the thought and you click the volume up a few notches.

By the time you pull up in front of your apartment, your anger has pretty much spent. You’re feeling the exhaustion from the late hour, your eight hours of work, and the adrenaline crash your rage has left behind. You slump up the steps and deposit your keys on the counter inside your dark apartment. You don’t bother with the lights as you shuffle down the narrow hallway to your bedroom. You fling yourself onto your bed, kicking off your ugly, practical shoes. Your ears still ring a little from your car radio, but your head feels clear enough as you close your eyes to sleep.

A thud against your door jerks you violently from a deep sleep. A few slightly quieter thuds follow rapidly as you untwist yourself from your comforter. A peek at your watch tells you that you haven’t even slept an hour as you race to your door. Flipping on the lights, you swing the door open and the figure on the other side practically falls against you.

The first thing you notice is the blood. A lot of blood. The petite woman before you is panting and shaking and gripping at the front of your scrubs with her blood stained hands. You can’t make out where it’s all coming from. You’re still frozen in shock as she looks up at you with dark, panicked eyes. Strands of her black, chin length hair are plastered to her face with blood.

“Oh, you’re a nurse. Thank god. Please help me.” She pants out hoarsely. Your instincts take over. You take her elbows and her fingers loosen on your shirt front. Guiding her by her elbows you lead her to a dining chair on the other side of the counter. Once she’s settled, you quickly run back and turn the deadbolt. You hope with every fiber of your being that whoever did this to her is not close behind. For extra precaution you flip all the lights off before hurrying back to the girl. She had begun sobbing loudly into her hands.

“Shhh, we have to be quiet. Take some deep breaths,” whispering, you kneel in front of her and put one gentle hand on her denim clad knee. She keeps her face buried, but she works to stifle her cries.

“I need to go grab some first aid supplies, okay? I’ll be right back.” She nods shakily. “Put pressure on your wound if you can,” you add before leaving her and rushing down the hall to your bathroom. You grab the organized bag from your linen cabinet and a few towels. You sweep by your bed as well and grab your phone off your nightstand to call 911. As you swing around the corner again, you stop, staring at your secondhand dining set.

It’s empty.

You don’t get a chance to form your next thought before the world goes dark.

-

Your head throbs and you wish you would just fall back asleep. But as the pain in your skull begins to pull you slowly from the deep, some other realizations bring your consciousness into focus with a speed that makes your head reel.

First is the cloth trapped between your teeth. The gag is tight, pressing into your tongue, making it nearly impossible to swallow. Second is the similarly tight binds around your hands, which are fastened behind you around some kind of pole that presses between your shoulder blades. There are several loops around your waist as well that hold you tightly to it. It feels cold and metal on your spine. Then you feel the coolness of the floor through the thin cotton of your scrub pants. A smooth concrete, you decide, sliding your socked feet against it. Next, you feel the tickle on the back of your neck where blood continues to trickle from the pulsing point in the back of your head. And lastly, you realize that it’s not that your eyes haven’t adjusted, it really is pitch black around you.

Your heartrate speeds as panic rises in your chest, causing your head to pound even harder. You groan, fighting nausea.

“She’s awake.” You can’t pinpoint how near the whisper is with the darkness and the dizziness.

“Shhh, it doesn’t matter,” a male whisper replies. Two voices. The sound of the first voice stirs your memory with a sharpness. The small dark-haired woman covered in blood flashes in your head. She’s here too, and alive. You attempt to stretch your fingers against your bindings. No wonder she was so afraid. Whoever has you both is more than just some angry, heavy handed boyfriend. “Quit staring at me like that, I won’t change my mind,” the man’s voice snaps. Where are they? You can’t see light coming from anywhere. They sound close.

“Come on, I couldn’t wipe off the smell of all that blood and it’s killing me. I don’t see the big deal.” It’s her again. She isn’t gagged? Her casual tone doesn’t make any sense. Neither do the words she’s whispering. You hear shuffling and then the wet sound of lips meeting. She giggles, “Come on, Mark. Together.” You barely hear her whisper.

The confusion doesn’t stop the ice-cold fear from flooding your veins. Whatever the details, you’re alone, not a co-abductee. They kiss again and Mark groans, but it sounds more in pleasure than protest. There’s shuffling again. Then footfalls growing nearer. You can hear your own heart drumming in your ears. The blindness is terrifying.

“Please. Don’t hurt me,” are the words you try to choke out, but the cloth pressing against your tongue makes it incomprehensible. You curl your knees into your chest. Her laugh is cold.

“I love it when their hearts sound like that.”

You gasp through your nose when there’s suddenly shuffling behind you and your hands fall free. Your waist is still secured tightly to the pole, but what feel like the man’s hands lifts your right arm up. His grip is strong. You wouldn’t have been able to pull away even if you’d had time to before you feel a sharp pain across the inside of your wrist. By the time you cry out in pain, he’s already pressing over the fresh wound.

It’s his mouth. He’s sucking at it.

Your wrist burns, but the rest of you is frozen in fear. They’re crazy people. Some kind of fucked up cultists or something.

He’s only latched to you for a few seconds before he pulls away, panting.

“Careful, her heart is pumping it fast.” He grunts as the girl’s smaller hands take over. Her mouth fastens on quickly.

You realize your other hand is lying beside you limply, free. She’s small. You could maybe detach her from your arm. The pull of her mouth at your wrist is stronger than Mark’s and your dizziness is growing. You don’t want to die without fighting.

The fingers of your left hand on the floor just barely twitch to close into a fist when his boot slams down. You swear you can hear your fingers crunch against the concrete as your muffled scream pierces the darkness. The pain sets your heart racing with a new fervor and the faintness sets in quickly.

“Clara, you’re draining her.” His voice sounds far away. Your arm falls heavily on the floor before you lose consciousness again.

-

You can’t tell how much time is passing as you drift through varying depths of consciousness. It could be minutes or days. You don’t fight going under; it’s a much preferable alternative to fear and pain. The reprieves are shortening though, your body maintaining enough strength to keep you awake, even though you wish it wouldn’t.

To avoid contemplating your imminent death, you focus in around yourself again. It’s still pitch black, but a faint conversation can be heard somewhere in the darkness. You can’t make out words, but you decide you can hear somewhere between five and seven distinct voices, including Mark and Clara.

The voices abruptly stop and then one of them hisses like a cat.

“I told you they would come.” The male voice doesn’t bother whispering. A flurry of activity begins around you, footsteps moving in all directions. A pair move closer to you.

“It’s showtime,” Mark growls, cutting the new ties binding your forearms, along with the ties at your waist. He hoists you over a shoulder in one quick motion. You see stars. Keeping nausea down takes all your focus as his quick footsteps jostle you around. Your eyes are finally taking in small amounts of light, but you’re moving too quickly to see anything.

Mark stops suddenly. Your eyes focus.

He’s stopped in front of an empty doorway. You turn your aching head. There are several figures standing beyond it, crouching in defensive positions. The moon is bright to your light starved eyes. How is it still night?

He snaps his head down the corridor that he’d been running down and then back to the action in front of you. 

“Fuck it,” he spits, dropping you in a heap to the floor. You grunt loudly when your chin hits the concrete, not quite able to catch yourself with your unbroken hand. “Move and I kill you,” Mark whispers, crouched down and staring out the doorway. The darkness around you still shadows the details of his appearance, but you can tell he’s at least twice your size.

You follow his gaze.

From this position, a box truck blocks most of your view, but you can see feet in a strip between the wheels. There are six pairs all pointed to the left, and two pointed back at them.

“You have nothing to offer. She isn’t a bargaining chip, she’s bait. And then she’s the victory meal after I kill you,” a man shouts, and several other voices hiss and snigger. He can’t be talking about you, right? Who would you be bait for? You can’t think for long as the word “meal” settles in.

“I like my chances,” chuckles the owner of one of the two pairs of boots to the left.

Two figures from the right side rush forward immediately, another two on their heels. Mark stiffens beside you. There’s a mixture of grunting, hissing, and blades slashing. Something thuds on the ground and rolls. You squint and see two eyes, frozen wide, staring back at you. Blood pools around the stump of the neck, soaking long blonde strands of hair. You snap your face away from the disembodied head, your stomach heaving dryly. Mark doesn’t notice your movement. He’s on his feet as the battle continues raging.

“Clara!” he yells desperately. Then he’s running away from you.

You’re alone.

You push yourself up to your feet as fast as your damaged body will let you. You shuffle over to the back corner of the truck and peer around it. Just on the other side of the gory scene before you is a junkyard of cars, and beyond that, woods running alongside a road.

You set your sights on the nearest car and run.


	4. Lucky | Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re unlucky in love when you find a lost wallet outside a bar and are smitten with the photo on the ID inside. Could your luck have turned, or have you found yourself in the middle of something unfortunate?
> 
> Chapter Warnings: descriptions of injuries, cursing

You don’t stop running. Even when you hit the tree line.

You’re finally forced to when you catch the toe of your muddy sock on something and pitch forward. You let out a clenched scream when you automatically catch yourself with both hands and pain shoots through the swollen, purple fingers of your left hand. You yank the cloth from your mouth with your other and lean over to finally retch.

You can’t hear the sounds of fighting anymore, but you still don’t feel safe enough to exit the cover of the woods to try and flag someone down on the road. You clutch your stiff left hand to your chest and keep moving.

The adrenaline burst of your escape is waning. Your steps become uneven as you start feeling more of the pain and dizziness from your injuries. You stop to lean against a tree and heave again, bringing up nothing but stringy saliva and hot bile. You look up, considering the road again, and see what looks like a gravel driveway perpendicular from where you stand.

The car comes into view as you stagger forward. It’s black and old. And familiar.

Long arms close around your shoulders and waist from behind. You can’t muster more than a whimper.

“Hey, hey it’s okay, Y/N. You’re safe now.”

The arms scoop you up as your body collapses and then you’re sliding into the backseat. The alarm bells are still blaring in your head. You feel anything but safe, but the fight is out of you. The car is loud, your ear pressed to the leather seat, and the movement makes your head spin. You groan, keeping your eyes squeezed shut and wishing you would just pass out again.

“She better not yack back there,” you hear over the roar of the engine.

“Hand me some water.” The other voice comes from above your head. “Oh, and the ashes.” The smell of campfire fills the car. There are hands pulling gently at each of your limbs, turning them over, and setting them back down. A large warm hand is at the back of your neck lifting your head. “I need you to swallow these. It’s just some stuff to help with the pain.” Three pills press past your lips, followed by the metal edge of a canteen. You groan again as your head rests back down and then you feel fingers lifting the hair around the lump at the back of your head.

“Hospital,” you murmur.

“Don’t worry, we got you. Try to go to sleep,” his voice soothes. A blanket drapes around you and you realize how bad you’re shaking. You feel his hands rubbing at the gash on your wrist. It stings, but you’re slipping away.

-

“I still don’t think we should be stopping yet.”

It’s bright and you keep your eyes squeezed shut as you’re jostled out of sleep and into someone’s arms.

“I need to get her cleaned up so I can splint her hand, Dean. It’s daylight, and if the ashes didn’t work, we’d know by now.” His voice rumbles in his chest against your ear. Your whole body is throbbing, but your head especially. You’re grateful when the light dims against your eyelids and your body lowers onto a bed. A stiff bed, but a bed.

You hear the man identified as Dean grumble and a door click shut. The bed dips near your legs and fingers brush your cheek.

“Hey,” he whispers, “I’m sorry to wake you, but we need to get you fixed up.”

His voice is pulling you from the haze of sleep despite how hard you fight it. You don’t want to feel the fear and pain returning. You feel a sock peeling from your foot. “Do you think you can shower?” You blink your eyes open.

“Greg?” you rasp. You must be hallucinating. You remember the car and his soothing voice and big hands.

He chuckles, stripping off the other sock. “My real name is Sam. I know this is all really confusing and I have a lot of explaining to do, but right now I’m just trying to help you. Your hand is broken, and I want to get you clean before I put fresh bandages on. Can you shower on your own?”

You nod slightly, eyes wide. You can’t make sense of a single thing that’s happened to you, including your rescue. Is that what this is? A rescue? You can’t help feeling, as the saying goes, out of the frying pan and into the fire. The last time you saw Greg, or Sam rather, you nearly called the cops on him. It felt like forever ago now.

Eyeing him warily, you hoist yourself slowly off of the ugly, floral-patterned comforter. You ignore the hands that come up to help you and start walking stiffly to the bathroom. You’re in a small motel room with two full sized beds and a lot of highway noise coming through the thin, yellowing walls. The bathroom is worse than the room with its stained and chipped plaster and questionable black crud on the tiles. The scariest thing in the bathroom, though, is the reflection in the dingy mirror above the sink. Finally getting sight of the physical toll of your experiences brings everything rushing back. Your wide eyes quickly fill with tears.

Your face is puffy, eyes red and purple rimmed. Your hair is wild around your face, pulled almost entirely out of the single braid it had been in during your hospital shift. There are dried rivulets of blood running from the back of your head and down your neck. Your scrubs are turned to a blackish color where blood has soaked into the navy fabric. And where there isn’t blood, there are cakes of mud. Your left hand looks terrible. There are likely breaks in many fingers as well as your hand, but it’s impossible to tell what’s broken and what isn’t with all the bruising and swelling. Your right hand is better off. The gash on the inside of your wrist is the only wound that looks to be cleaned. It was deep and will leave a nasty scar, but the healing has already started.

You start at the rap on the slightly cracked door.

“Hey, you should take some pain meds now, so they’ll have kicked in when I have to work on your hand.” He offers two pills and a metal water bottle through the door.

“I should be taken to a hospital.” You croak, unmoving.

“We’ll talk more when you come out.”

You take the medication from him. You imagine washing up will be hard on your aching body and you could already use some relief. You move to shut the crack in the door and meet resistance. “Sorry, I think you probably have a pretty bad concussion. Just leave it cracked in case you pass out and fall, or you need help.” You meet one green eye through the crack in the door. In one quick movement, you throw your shoulder against the door and turn the lock. He huffs on the other side but backs away.

Your small rebellion feels good, even if the quick movement makes your head reel.

The shower is difficult with one good hand, a tender head, and a tiny bar of soap. The difficulty doesn’t make it any less satisfying. The blood and dirt swirl down the drain with the scalding water. You let some tears fall into the mix too.

You dry your hair gingerly with a towel and then wrap it around yourself. You sigh and crack the door. “Umm…Sam?” He’s already standing on the other side.

“You okay?”

“All I have are my scrubs and- “

“Oh, hang on.”

His hand reaches through the door with a white T-shirt and plaid shorts. “Dean isn’t back yet but these have a drawstring.”

The clothes are ridiculously oversized for your frame, but also ridiculously comfortable. You exit to find him still standing right outside the door. You brush past him and plant yourself back on the bed. He stays put, staring at you, awaiting your cue.

You look up and meet his eyes, “So, your name is Sam?”

His face breaks into an easy smile, “That is your first question?”

“I don’t know where to start. Who the hell you are is as good a place as any.”

“No, you’re right actually.” He grabs a bag off of one of the nightstands and comes to your side, settling to his knees beside the bed. You shift your legs so he can spread the bag open and pull out medical supplies onto the bedspread. “My name is Sam, and my brother is Dean. We both have a bunch of fake IDs like the one you found. Driver’s licenses, badges, government ID, whatever gets us through the doors.” His eyes flick up to your cautious gaze. “We hunt down things that people don’t believe in. Supernatural things. We use aliases to get information on whatever we’re tracking. That’s the gist.” He holds out an open palm for you to place your injured hand into. You keep it held to your chest.

“You know, I’ve heard a lot of bullshit- “

He sighs and grabs the forearm of your other hand before you can pull away, holding it out palm up, “You’ve seen it yourself. They drank from you, didn’t they? The vampires?”

“Vampires?” you whisper.

“Yes. I know it’s scary to find out that things like that are real. And to find out the way you did. Most people live their lives blissfully unaware, but some of us aren’t so lucky.” He reaches his palm out again, “I’ll tell you everything, but please let me see your hand.”

You place it in his and hold your breath as he begins wrapping it in a splint. “We’ve been in town hunting these vampires. We’ve had a run in with this particular nest in the past. We offed a lot of them, but not all of them. Sebastian, their leader, got away with the few remaining and we couldn’t find them again. Since then, they’ve got their numbers back up and got our attention again. Exactly what they wanted. Sebastian now has a personal vendetta against me in particular for killing his mate. Vampires mate for life.”

He offers your bandaged hand back to you and reaches for your other. This one is quick. He adds butterfly bandages to hold the laceration on your wrist closed, some antibiotic ointment, and a bandage.

“And now, where you come in. Coincidentally, I meet you twice. I know now that it truly was a coincidence, but you have to understand that in my line of work, coincidences aren’t a thing. Everything has meaning.”

“Everything is suspicious,” you echo venomously.

“Yes. I followed you just in case. I really am sorry about that night.” He looks into your eyes when he says it, squeezing the repacked bag in his long fingers. “I didn’t think you’d recognize the car. I just…I’m sorry.”

“It kind of sticks out,” you spit. The kinder his words, the more the anger bubbles in you. You don’t even doubt the sincerity of his story, however crazy, or his apology. You’re angry anyway.

He huffs out a breathy chuckle, “Yeah, tell that to Dean.”

He moves back a couple of feet and sits on the edge of the opposite bed. “Anyway, Sebastian took our meetings as interest and targeted you.” Despite yourself, his implied lack of interest stings. “An eye for an eye, my girl for his girl, I guess. He also knew that if he took you, we’d come. That’s our job.” He shrugs. “I saw you run. Thank god you did. We were outnumbered. Losing. So again, we just hurt them. They’re not finished, and Sebastian is still alive.” He sighs and runs a hand through his long hair. His eyes flick back to where you stew. “And that’s the hardest part of this. You have to stay with us. When a fang has your scent, they hang onto it for good. The saffron, cabbage, and trillium ashes helped throw them off for now, and they’re hurt too. But they’re more pissed than ever. They’re not waiting around for another year to get us.”

There it is. You’re captive again. All of your emotion has channeled into pure rage.

“You think- “ you start in a low growl, but the door swings open, the handle meeting the pre-existing dent in the wall behind it. Dean waltzes in, bags in hand, and a rolling cot in tow.

“Dibs on a real bed,” he crows with a grimace, kicking the cot the rest of the way into the room. “For you sweetheart,” he adds dumping the bags at the foot of the bed you sit on. He carries a fast food bag with him and flops in the center of the bed where Sam still sits on the edge.

“Tense.” He mutters with his mouth full of burger.


	5. Lucky | Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re unlucky in love when you find a lost wallet outside a bar and are smitten with the photo on the ID inside. Could your luck have turned, or have you found yourself in the middle of something unfortunate?
> 
> Chapter Warnings: nightmares, bed sharing, cuddling, angst, dumb flirting

You finally got the timeline nailed down with Sam filling in the holes. You were abducted from your home somewhere between four and five in the morning on Sunday, after your shift. Kept in pitch blackness, and in and out of consciousness due to a significant concussion and blood loss, there was no way of knowing that the entire day passed. Sam and Dean were able to locate and make it to the nest by nightfall. Monday morning found you here at the motel, after driving through the night to put a significant distance between you and what was left of your captors.

You called Emily, the only person who’d really worry about you, on a burner phone Dean let you use. But since then, the only people you’ve had contact with are these mysterious brothers. If you can call it contact. The past two days have been spent with Sam clicking away at a laptop in the corner of the room and making whispered phone calls in the bathroom, Dean leaving the place as much as possible and coming back smelling of booze or bacon to watch TV too loudly, and you sleeping off your concussion or listening to an audiobook on Sam’s IPod, because reading with your eyes still made you nauseous.

Evening is falling again as you lay on your bed pretending to sleep. Sam has his eyes on you almost every time you look up. It’s already been suffocating enough sharing the space with these two men without the constant puppy eyes.

Besides pain, anger is all you feel. You’re aware that it makes no sense to direct it at your rescuers, but you don’t care. Right now, they’re your new captors and it feels good to meet Sam’s overbearing glances with glares and his questions with silence or sarcasm. You’d snap at Dean too, but he left you alone. Sam keeps trying.

“Sammy. Outside.” Dean pokes his head in the room. You hit the pause button on the book you’re not listening to and strain your ears against the highway noise to catch the conversation drifting through the thin walls.

“I don’t like you going alone,” Sam’s voice rumbles.

“I won’t be alone. Two extra hunters are enough. We gotta get back there before they recoup too much. Or worse, move again.”

“You know what I mean. We don’t know these guys that well. They won’t have your back like I would.”

“I’m a big boy, Sammy. You’re still hurt, anyway. And you have to stay here with her. She trusts you more.”

You scoff at the same time Sam does. “She hates me, dude.” He mumbles something else too quiet for you to hear.

“You gotta stop doing this to yourself. None of this is your fault.”

“If I’d left her alone, they never would have come after her. They grabbed her the very next night after I staked out her place. Sebastian made it clear that it wasn’t a coincidence.” The guilt is heavy in his voice. You feel some of your own tighten in your chest. You might be being too hard on him.

“You can’t live like that, shutting everyone out. People get hurt whether you’re around or not. It’s not a crime to like someone every once in a while.”

“Dean…”

“Whatever, man. I’m meeting up with the guys now to game plan. I’ll be back late and then we leave bright and early.” Dean shuffles a bag and then his footsteps begin moving away from the door. “Don’t let her push you around too much while I’m gone!” he yells and then the car door slams.

You snap your eyes shut as the door clicks open. He doesn’t even try to be discreet when he comes around the bed and leans over you. He steps away and sighs, heading to the bathroom where you can hear him quietly place an order for Chinese food. He remembers to ask for no mushrooms in your stir fry. 

He flicks off the lights and tiptoes back to his corner, so he doesn’t disturb your fake slumber. He clicks at his computer, unaware of your turmoil.

A swirl of contrition, doubt, and frustration makes your head hurt. This time all of it is pretty much directed at yourself. Every spiteful action you’ve taken towards Sam comes back and pummels you in the gut. Somewhere in the back of your mind you knew he never really deserved it. He’d only ever been nice. So annoyingly nice. Because he liked you? You press a thumb between your eyebrows, pushing away, not for the first time, the feelings you had when you met him. You feel like a silly teenager, denying your feelings, wanting to cry into a pillow, avoiding Sam as much as possible.

You’re a grown up. You can apologize. Just not right now.

-

You’re asleep before Dean gets back. The new unease in the presence of Sam, knowing you should talk to him, is making your head throb with a vengeance.

It isn’t the first time your dreams have taken a dark turn. You’re always back in that dark room. At least that’s where it feels like. You never saw the room where you were tied up, and your dream displays that same darkness. Every sense but sight is heightened. You hear every movement and hiss echo around you. You’re not tied up, but you can’t move. Hands grab at you, pulling hard at different limbs. Voices laugh at your cries as you lay helpless, only feeling the damage they leave to your lifeless form.

Sam wakes with a start when you cry out. The too small cot creaks as he extricates his aching body from it. Dean snorts loudly and groans, pulling a pillow over his head. Sam comes to your side and hesitates. Your face is scrunched up in obvious discomfort. His fingers twitch, wanting to smooth the lines between your brows. He wills himself to step away instead.

He’s almost back in bed when you start panting fast. This time he gives in to instinct, wrapping a hand around your ankle through the bedspread.

“Shh…It’s just a dream.”

The clawing hands turn to gentle caresses. Stroking your leg from knee to ankle, pushing hair from your forehead.

You blink and find moonlight streaming through cracks between thick green curtains. You shift in the sheets, grateful that you have control of your body again.

“You okay?” You jump hard at the gentle whisper. Sam’s hands move away from you and into his lap, but he stays seated on the edge of the bed by your feet. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. You were having a nightmare again.”

You blink a couple of times at his shadowed face and then burst into tears.

The mattress rocks as he settles his large frame next to you, and you let him pull you into his arms. The gesture wrenches a quiet sob out of you. “I know, I get them too. It’s awful,” he whispers into your hair, a warm hand moving in soothing circles on your back.

“I--I’m so scared…all the time.” The admission chokes out of you and into his soaked shirtfront.

He pulls up your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Your breath hitches. Somehow the affectionate statement both warms your bones and twists like a sharp knife in your chest at the same time.

“Sam, I…I’m really sorry.”

“What?” He laughs in genuine shock. You pull back a little.

“You’ve gone out of your way to be nice to me and I’ve gone out of my way to make you miserable. You don’t deserve it,” you sniff. “I’m afraid. And I’m angry. But not at you.”

“You’ve gone through a lot.”

You roll your still teary eyes and let out a sad laugh, “Ugh, like that.” You sigh and pull your good arm out of his grasp to wipe at your nose. “Thank you for saving me. And thank you for keeping me safe. Even from my own dreams.” You try to laugh again, but it doesn’t come out right. You shudder and his arms flex automatically, pulling you into him again. You breathe in his warmth and clean linen scent. You’re suddenly very aware of how intimate the embrace is, being in your bed, and your stomach flutters. His heart beats too fast beneath your ear and you smile a little. He feels it too, but he doesn’t let go. You can’t deny it feels right.

“You get nightmares too?” You break the silence; it feels so good to talk.

“Yeah, it comes with the territory. Everything is different when you know what’s really out there. When you look evil in the face.”

“But this is what you do? You and your brother? You…hunt things?”

He chuckles dryly, “The family business. We never knew anything different, me and Dean. Our dad was a hunter. When we woke up afraid there was a monster in the closet, he came in with a shotgun.”

“Oh…I can’t imagine.”

“It’s not so bad. We save people, do what the cops can’t.” You nod against his chest, sniffling quietly. “You think you can sleep again?”

“Yeah, maybe. I feel like I haven’t slept in days. I know it looks like I just lay here and sleep all the time, but every time I close my eyes I’m back there. I feel like a kid afraid of the dark.”

“A very rational fear, really.” His long hair flops over his smiling face as he relinquishes you to your pillow and pulls the covers up. Your fingers still grip his hand. “Do you want me to stay?”

“Would you?”

“Let’s see…tiny cot, or pretty girl?” he quips, sliding under the covers.

You settle into his warmth, anxiety melting away. Your cheeks are still hot with the blush his flirty remark brought on when you fall back asleep.

Dean trips over the cot, just a few steps shy of slipping out. He squints in the still mostly dark room, finding the cot empty. His stomach flips for a second, head whipping around. He breathes a relieved chuckle, finding his brother deep in sleep with you barely visible in his arms. “Sammy, you dog…” He hikes his bag back up onto his shoulder and shuts the door quietly behind him.

-

You’re alone when you wake up from the best sleep you’ve had in days. Your head feels markedly clearer as you sit up.

The shower shuts off and your heart flutters. How quickly your body’s involuntary response has changed at the thought of Sam. He strolls out, lower half wrapped in a towel, top half bare and still beaded with water droplets. Your blush heats all the way down to your shoulders. He’s perfectly muscled, and you glimpse a tattoo brandishing his upper left chest before you look pointedly up at his face. His smile is just as disarming as his nakedness.

“You’re up. How’d you sleep?”

“Like a baby,” you rub your eyes, still a little puffy from your cry. “I didn’t bother you?”

“Just one night on this thing is one too many; I’ll take a bed hog any day.” He folds the rickety cot in half easily with one hand, ignoring your indignant scoff. He grabs some clothes out of a duffel on the floor and heads back to the bathroom. “Get dressed,” he throws over his shoulder, “We’re going out.”

You don’t have a lot of options, but Dean did all right on his shopping trip. You move as quickly as one good arm will let you, excited to leave the much-resented motel room for the first time. Soon you’re dressed in some comfortable leggings and a T-Shirt, teeth brushed, and knots picked out of your hair with Sam’s tiny comb.

“Ready.” You beam. Sam, fully dressed now and stretched out on the tidy bed where he slept beside you, looks up from his laptop. He smiles back, pulling glasses off of his nose. You like the change: smiling when he looks at you instead of stares full of concern. He probably appreciates the lack of glares himself.

-

“A movie?” He asks, eyebrows raised.

“What, too regular for you?”

He laughs, “No, it sounds perfect actually.” He pulls out a familiar leather wallet and throws some cash on the table between your empty dishes. “I just can’t remember the last time I went to the movies.”

“We passed a theater a few blocks down.” You shrug, not ready to call it a day and hole back up in the motel.

“Lead the way.” He gestures, standing. It felt like the day at the library again. Being with him was easy. If you didn’t both look like you’d been in a car accident, you could almost imagine nothing crazy had ever happened.

The comforting, buttery smell of movie theater plasters a grin on your face. “I almost wish we hadn’t just eaten. Popcorn is my favorite.”

“Candy guy.” He smiles down at you.

“Oh yeah?”

“Ooohhh yeah. Anything sour.”

You walked into the very next movie they had showing, some sci-fi thing that you never would have picked in a million years. It was mediocre. Most of the day’s events had been mediocre, running errands for restocking the first aid kit, snack bag, plus some extra stuff for you to get by. And then an okay lunch followed by a passable movie.

It was the best day you’d had in a long time.

Your head hurts and your fingers are like sausages sticking out from your sling, but you can’t wipe a smile off your face as you walk back to the motel. You want to lace your fingers into the large hand swinging next to you. Besides some light flirting, everything has been above bar. You’re trying to work out a reason why he’d sleep next to you again instead of a perfectly good unused bed when his phone rings. He stops in his tracks.

“Dean, finally.” You can’t hear the other end, but his face darkens. “Okay. Yeah, we have more. Be careful.” He hangs up.

It’s him that reaches for your hand, but not in the way you pictured it. His long legs move quickly, pulling you behind him.

“The nest moved. They could be anywhere.” His words shoot ice-cold fear down your spine.

You struggle to keep up with his pace the whole way until he finally stops in the parking lot of the motel. He drops quickly to a knee. Is he tying his shoe? You’re about to question him, antsy to get inside and out of the darkening night, when he pulls up his pant leg and unstraps a long knife.

Shielded behind his back, you watch him thrust open the motel door in one quick movement. You stand in the corner while he checks the rest of the room. He grabs a bag and quickly heads for the door again.

“Stay here,” he directs firmly.

“Sam—” You hear the fear constricting your voice. His hand stops on the doorknob; the concerned eyes are back.

“I know. I’ll only be a minute, I promise.” And then he’s gone.

He’s true to his word, returning for you soon after he left. After being assured it’s safe, you reluctantly follow him back outside and around to the back of the building. He directs you to a strange smelling fire burning in a metal trashcan.

“It’s not perfect, but it can help throw them off. The smell.” With that, you move closer, reaching out a shaking hand to try and let the warmth draw the fear from you. His arm wraps around you and you lean into his side.

You stand quietly this way until the fire is down to smoking embers. “Come on,” he whispers, gently bringing you back to reality. He pulls the trashcan with him to the door. You sit on the end of the bed while he disables the smoke alarm, staring at the sliver of exposed skin above his belt as he reaches up with long arms.

The trashcan is left in the room to smoke it up while you both sit on the curb just outside. The smell is still heavy around you as smoke leaks from the open window. You’re grateful for his arm around you; the night is cold without the fire.

“I’m sorry. I want this to be over too.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.” You only rest your aching head on his shoulder for a second before you snap it back up at his scoff. “Sam, I don’t blame you for any of this. I’d be dead without you.”

“You’d be at home still believing monsters aren’t real without me.”

You continue to stare at him, trying to catch his eye. “Well, I’m glad I met you.” It comes out angrier than you wanted it to. He finally meets your eyes. There is sadness there, but something else too.

In a second his lips are on yours. A shocked sigh leaves your mouth and enters his as his lips part. Your surprise and remaining dregs of fear melt away with the insistent heat of his mouth on yours. Too soon, he pulls away.

You’ve only just blinked open your heavy lids and he’s already pulled the metal can from the room and slammed a lid over it. He peers into the haze and looks back at you, eyes dark.

“It’s not too bad in there.” He jerks his head towards the open door and reaches out a hand for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I appreciate feedback!  
> Check out my Tumblr where I usually post stuff first!  
> samlicker81.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I appreciate feedback!  
> Check out my Tumblr where I usually post stuff first!  
> samlicker81.tumblr.com


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